


when faced with extinction

by darwinsdonut



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluffy Ending, I hurt my faves but I leave them happy and loved, Is he okay? Yeah but he died, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pov, OT3, Oneshot, Project Freelancer, Rated M for Graphic Violence, Tucker Dies But He Survives, Tucker is a Freelancer AU, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 07:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15658248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darwinsdonut/pseuds/darwinsdonut
Summary: Tucker has experienced easier missions.Maine's experienced tragedies, and he'll do anything to make sure Agent Michigan isn't another.Washington just wants to see them both safe and sound.*Notes regarding Major Archive Warnings inside*





	when faced with extinction

**Author's Note:**

> Tucker dies halfway through! But he survives through the miracle of Maine's CPR. The violence isn't too bad, but Tucker's injuries are described. This involves: eye injury (specifically caused by glass from a broken visor); glass in his mouth and throat + blood; a dislocated shoulder that gets broken again (this isn't in too much detail); and a gunshot wound.

Tucker had experienced easier missions. 

The blood now trickling down his brow combined with the fragmented view of the _huge_ insurrectionist and Tucker was pretty sure he was goddamn dead. His breathing came heavy, his leg pulsed with screaming pain, and his dislocated shoulder damn sure couldn't lift his rifle. 

So this was the end of Agent Michigan, formerly Private First Class Lavernius Tucker. What a shitty way to die. 

He glanced up at the ceiling, at the vent that had broken through, and felt like there was something there that could... Save him. Somehow. But his brain was muddy, and the insurrectionist sauntering forward was toying with him at this point. Something about the vent... It felt like trying to do trigonometry to think about what the fuck his brain was trying to tell him. Vent... 

The insurrectionist came forward and a foot collided with Tucker's helmet, knocking him on his back. More of the glass from the visor dropped to his face, hit his left eye, caused him to forget even more. The insurrectionist pointed his handgun, which looked _dainty_ compared to the burly fucker, at Tucker. 

In a snap- literally, his shoulder snapped with the motion- Tucker pointed his sniper rifle at the vent and fired. 

The insurrectionist lurched back at the motion, watched the bullet ricochet down and break a glass window all the way across the room, and then looked at Tucker. 

"You wasted your last bullet for nothing- and that is all you've ever been or will be." 

Tucker had his eyes closed against the glass and the blood. When he smiled, tiny fragments of glass fell into his mouth, where blood trickled rust-flavored around his teeth. "That's where you're wrong, bucko." 

"Wh-" 

More blood splashed Tucker's visor. The insurrectionist fell in a lump next to him, and an achingly familiar voice called, "Michigan! Holy shit, Michigan, you still alive?" 

Tucker rose his left arm in a half-dead wave as Agent Washington's voice approached. 

"Holy shit," Washington repeated. "And they call _me_ the cockroach. Dude, how are you even alive right now?" 

Tucker wanted to laugh, but right then he couldn't. This would be a real nice time for that movie trope where the badly injured character fades to black, Tucker thought, but he had never been that fortunate. Instead, he felt all the pain, felt his twice-broken shoulder, the glass in his throat and the horrible sting of his eyes. He couldn't even ask Washington to mercifully knock him the fuck out. 

"You can't get up, can you?" 

Tucker gave a thumbs-down. 

Washington sighed and a buzz came through the broken radio in Tucker's head, Washington's voice echoing in fragments through the mission server: "...in need of... Third terminal... ba - injured... located. Holding position. Over." 

From the other end, a muffled grunt of affirmation. 

Washington glanced down at Tucker. "Can you talk?" 

Thumbs-down. 

"See?" 

Thumbs-down. 

"Move your right arm?" 

Left-hand emphatic thumbs down. 

"Huh. Well, we'll get you evac'ed ASAP and to the med-bay as soon as we're back." 

Thumbs-up. 

"Stay conscious, alright? It'll help." 

Tucker wished he could do _anything else._

"Has your armor got any healing enhancements?" 

Thumbs-down. 

"Well... Here. This is gonna hurt." 

Tucker couldn't even see what was happening. There was some movement, maybe the sound of something opening, and then- 

"AOWGH!" 

The outburst broke out of Tucker and shot more glass into his mouth from his face as his body jolted. It took his brain a hot second to register anything more than intense pain, to centralize it to his leg, and then an icy sensation appeared alongside the burning pain. What the _fuck-_

"Hurt like a bitch?" 

The most begrudging thumbs-up Tucker had ever given. Ever. Of all time. 

Washington chuckled. "Sorry. Biofoam doesn't feel great but it'll keep you alive." 

Tucker clenched his jaw, hearing glass crunch under his teeth, and heaved a breath. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. _Fuck._ He forced his jaw to unclench and clenched his left fist against the pain. He needed- he needed something to squeeze- 

In his pain-crippled mind, Tucker had one single objective. 

He lifted his hand and closed and opened it quickly in a repeated motion. Washington questioned it and Tucker just kept going. Washington finally got the message and put his hand in Tucker's. Tucker squeezed it, not too hard, just hard enough to feel- 

Ah, good. It was his right hand. Washington is left-handed. 

Tucker squeezed harder through the gathering pain in his leg; the ice felt like some horribly cold fire to him right now and it didn't make any sense and _who the FUCK invented Biofoam because Tucker needed to break through their fucking door-_

"OUCH! Motherfu- hmmmm!" Washington cut off and withdrew his hand. "Michigan, you broke my motherfucking hand!" 

_I'm in a lot of pain,_ Tucker excued himself mentally. _Pregnant women do that kind of shit all the time._

Tucker's adrenaline still hadn't reduced by the time Maine finally showed up. Tucker cracked his right eye open briefly as Maine entered the room. Maine was so big he made the corpse next to Tucker look like an underdog, and, for once, Tucker found that endearing instead of intimidating. If anyone could get him out of here, it was Agent Maine. 

Something in Tucker's brain clicked: Maine was here, and he was safe. His adrenaline finally began to recede. 

He let his eyes close, and big arms lifted him, set him with surprising gentleness on a big shoulder. Tucker felt the world whirl around him and the blood loss caught up to him now that his head was upside down; his stomach turned and he forced it down- well, up, as it may be. He heaved a breath through his nose, coughed, felt blood and glass pass through his mouth. Then the motion of Maine walking. 

Tucker's consciousness didn't last till the ship. 

He didn't fight it as he slipped away; as his head swam and thoughts turned to jumbled nonsense and spiraled toward nothing, one word sprouted coherent above the rest: 

_Finally._   


* * *

  


Maine had... Been through a lot. 

He didn't like to think about why he was recruited. His arrival to PFL wasn't heralded with celebrations or rainbows and flowers or anything like that. He was big, and that meant scary, and that meant the other Freelancers saw him and thought, _Wow, that guy's fucking huge, he's gonna be our main competition._ And it took Maine a long time to feel even slightly close to anyone, and then he lost his voice and, with it, most of those few friendships he'd managed to form. 

But all that he had been through paled to the overwhelming panic and distress he felt today. 

Between Wash suddenly disappearing to receiving the call for help because Michigan was incapacitated, Maine barely got through that mission with his mind intact. If Wash hadn't already killed that insurrectionist that did that to Michigan, Maine would've _destroyed_ him. He still wanted to- but that kind of display of aggression toward a corpse was... Well. Neither of them needed to see that. 

Maine sat buckled on 479er's ship, waiting for the team to return to the MOI. South wouldn't shut up about how she'd been singlehandedly responsible for this mission still succeeding, and what that would mean for the leaderboard, and how much more free she was to succeed when North wasn't "slowing her down." Maine had a brief flashback to his adolescence, when headphones worked _wonders_ to block out unwanted chatter. He didn't care about the mission objective right then; they'd gotten the supply cache and gotten everyone out and that was great but there were more important matters. 

Michigan was laid against the chair across the ship's small hold from Maine, sitting next to Washington, who was holding his broken hand at an angle. They'd removed Michigan's helmet and cleaned off his face upon reaching the ship, and Michigan rested inside the seatbelt still unconscious. He'd passed out before Maine even got him out of that room. 

As Maine stared, his heart jumped- he couldn't- he wasn't seeing that right- 

_NO._

Maine was out of his seat in an instant, hearing Wash and South's alarmed outbursts but not registering what was said. He ripped off his glove and held his fingers to Michigan's neck- no- no- _no!_

A strangled sound ripped from Maine as he all but hurled Michigan from the chair to the floor of the ship and started CPR. 

The movements came automatic; Maine had resuscitated downed soldiers before. All were equally important to this, but he wasn't sure he'd ever felt so panicked about it. 

He couldn't lose Michigan. 

He couldn't. 

He hadn't even gotten a _chance-_   


* * *

  


The mess hall wasn't the same without Michigan. 

Washington couldn't take listening to South continue to ramble about her great victory and he moved to sit by Maine instead. The large, silent Freelancer had once been unsettling, but Michigan talked to him every day, and Washington had warmed up to him after seeing those interactions. He remembered the first time the leaderboard team had watched Michigan approach Maine with confident strides and sit down; they'd laughed because Michigan had said three words and Maine stood and left. But Michigan kept trying, kept trying- 

And today, Maine did the same for Michigan, while Washington just sat back and watched. And after the mess hall, Washington continued that pattern in the med-bay- except now Maine was stuck on the sidelines with him. 

Washington sighed. He didn't care about his broken hand. He didn't give a half-fuck about his broken hand. He'd watched Michigan _die_ earlier. He'd been right beside him and hadn't given enough of a fuck to focus on anything but his own pain, and Michigan had _died_. If not for Maine, Michigan would still be dead- and there would be no chance of him coming back. 

"Hey, Maine?" 

Maine's helmet turned toward Washington. 

"...Thank you. I was useless tonight. Thank you for stepping up when I didn't. And- I'm sorry." 

A big hand took Washington's, and for a second Washington was too shocked to react, and then clenched his fingers around Maine's. Not as tight as Michigan had- but now Washington wished Michigan was back holding the other hand. 

They stayed there outside the med-bay. Now and then, Wash offered some small conversation, but no words felt quite right. He wondered how Michigan always seemed so comfortable talking to Maine. But as the night waned on and words to give lessened, Washington's exhaustion and stress and worry made him forget any practical concerns. He dropped his head on Maine's shoulder and let the warmth of Maine soak into him, remind him _someone_ had come out of that mission unscathed. 

It seemed an eternity before the door opened and Agent Michigan emerged, at last. He had been given joggers and a t-shirt and came out with bandages all over him and a crutch and an eyepatch. He raised his eyebrows. 

"You guys are still here?" 

Washington had been almost asleep and sat up, just as Michigan's eyes flashed to Washington and Maine's clasped hands. "Michigan! You got your voice back!" 

"Yeah, you get the blood and glass out and the vocal cords miraculously work again." He laughed, and coughed lightly. "Still pretty scratched up, though. What are y'all doing up? Aren't you exhausted?" 

Next to Washington, Maine nodded, and Washington had to agree. "We... Wanted to stay till you were okay." 

"Even though I broke your hand?" He paused, glancing aside. "Sorry about that, by the way." 

"It's fine," Washington said quickly. "I think you came out considerably worse than I did." 

Michigan glanced down at himself. "Yeah... Yeah, it looks like it, doesn't it?" 

Washington stood up and patted Michigan's not-broken shoulder with his not-broken hand. "Let's get you to bed." 

Maine stood and, to Washington's shock, lifted Michigan and started down the hall as Michigan laughed protests and shock. Washington grabbed the dropped crutch and hurried to follow. 

Maine took the halls in even-paced strides, as long and steady as ever, and Washington still had to step a little fast to keep up. By the time they reached Michigan's room, Washington was only slightly out of breath, after the mission all day and the hurried walk to Michigan's room. Maine at last set down the injured Freelancer, who wavered slightly until Maine caught him with an arm around his side. Michigan sent him a grateful smile and then unlocked his door. 

"Uh... You guys can come in if you want." 

Michigan leaned on Maine and headed into the room, dragging his injured leg slightly, and Washington glanced around before following. They reached the interior and Washington was surprised to see pictures all over the place. 

"What are all these?" Washington asked as Michigan sat on his bed. Maine was glancing at them all as well. 

"Oh- basic training buddies. Had a great group, huge rivalry with the opposing platoon. Good times with those dudes." 

Washington glanced at one picture. Michigan stood with a lazy peace sign and his arm tossed around a just-as-happy teammate, a man not much more than a boy, with a bright smile and curly hair and shining eyes. Another pic featured a girl in yellow armor with long black curls and big brown eyes and a jaw that rose extra chub to a warm smile. She seemed to shine in the sun- there were quite a few pictures of her. 

"Who's she? You got a girl back home?" 

Michigan laughed. "Kaikaina's her name, and she's way too good for me." 

Washington glanced at him and grinned, and then had to add, "I'm not sure there's anyone _too_ good for you. Even Maine has taken a liking to you." 

Maine glanced around at that. Michigan shrugged, and then winced. "Ah- well, he was bound to eventually. I've got that charisma." 

Maine snorted and cleared his throat, and Washington grinned. They were both still in armor, though Washington had removed his helmet earlier in the night. Washington thought longingly of his own bed. "If you say so, Michigan. Well- I may just head to bed, if you two are good here." 

Michigan glanced at Maine, a warmth that spoke of more in his eyes, and then turned that same glance to Washington, catching him off guard, and said, "No- uh- stay. Both of you. There's... Room." 

He glanced at his bed and then his expression flashed quickly from nervous to fuck-it. Washington glanced at Maine. He remembered the hand-holding earlier. He remembered Maine doing anything to bring Michigan back earlier. He remembered the undercurrent of panic when he found Michigan almost dead. And Washington realized there was nowhere he'd rather be tonight than in the same bed as Maine and Michigan, inhibitions be damned. 

"Okay." 

Michigan's eyebrows rose. "Okay?" 

Washington nodded, looked at Maine, saw him nod, and started to take off his armor. Michigan busied himself rearranging pillows, his mobility limited, and then scooted back and laid down, throwing the blanket over himself. 

Maine removed his helmet and Washington was surprised to find a faint red undertone to the bigger Freelancer's beige complexion. 

"There's, uh- shorts in the locker, Wash. Maine, you can _try,_ if you'd like." 

Maine chuckled and shook his head, stripped off his armor down to the bodysuit, and climbed over Michigan to lay by the wall. As Washington finished undressing he moved quickly to the bed as well. He wasn't _shy_ , but he also wasn't a huge fan of standing around in just his bodysuit. 

"Hit the light?" Michigan said softly, and Washington reached over and pressed a button on the end table. The room dimmed, nothing but a soft green halo on the ceiling to light the room. 

Washington lay there for a heartbeat. The room sat in stillness, three awkward men laying in a bed, none of them sure how to proceed. Then he took Michigan's hand in his. Maine rolled over and slung an arm across them both, his hand landing on Washington's chest, and Washington reached up and took Maine's hand as well. 

"This..." Michigan cleared his throat. "Thanks. This- means a lot." 

Washington lightly squeezed Michigan's hand. He knew his head was close to Michigan's, and whispered, "Goodnight, Michigan. Goodnight, Maine." 

"Night, Washington. Night Maine." 

Maine, in response, sat up enough to press his lips lightly to both their heads and lay back down. 

Michigan, in all his pain and exhaustion, gave a content sigh. He had been dead earlier- and now Washington laid in a bed with him and Maine, and they were all okay. Or they were going to be, with a little rest and time to recover. Michigan had died tonight, and when he did a piece of Washington went with him, and, at a guess, so did a piece of Maine. And now they were all here, in this little bed, in this dark room, squeezed a little too close together. 

It was the best possible outcome.


End file.
